Partners With Priorities
by Midorima Kazunari
Summary: Six years after the event of Partners, and five years after Priorities, Midorima and Akashi find themselves on the same team once more.
1. Chapter 1

_"There are three minutes left on the clock, and Team USA is down by five points. Number 4, Seijūrō "The Emperor" Akashi takes possession of the ball. The pressure is incredibly high, as Team Japan sends its three largest players, Murasakibara, Kagami, and Aomine to stop him."_

_"You know, Jim, Akashi said in an interview last week that he went to middle school with most of the opponents of Team Japan."_

_"You wouldn't know they were friends by watching the play out of the court, Marv. Both teams are playing for keeps."_

_"That's right, Jim, Akashi fakes left as the shot clock runs down. He has only seconds… he bounce passes the ball through the legs of Murasakibara to number 6, Shintarō Midorima. The Shooting Guard has no time to shoot, but the move gives Akashi time to break free of his marks…"_

* * *

POV Midorima

Takao sits at his desk, a pile of homework is laid out before him. I still think of him, at least in my head, as Takao. Out loud I refer to him as Kazu, unless we are in bed and then I call him Kazunari. It is complicated, as always inside my mind, even though our matching rings tell another, simpler story. This year we will celebrate our sixth wedding anniversary and I love him like the day… no, I love him in a much different way than when I first realized I loved him. There are smoother edges to my feelings now. I don't have to weigh and analyze them… they just are.

"Source language...," he mutters.

This semester he is taking a full load of credit hours in an attempt to finish off his online Master's degree from the University of Massachusetts in Amherst. It is not required for his scholarships, but his tuition covers it, and because of the birth of our daughter, he's put it off for too long. He continually makes sacrifices for me, and for Akira, but he needs to do this for himself and I will go to any lengths to make sure it happens.

"Oh! Baka!" Takao chides himself as he suddenly attacks his homework with more vigor.

He only has nine hours left, Problems and Methods in Translation (three hours), and Thesis and Practicum (six hours), and if he successfully defends this spring, he can accompany me to Japan and the Olympic Games without the thoughts of his thesis swinging over his head like the sword of Damocles.

"...that's a homophone. No wonder it looked wrong, tsk."

On top of all that, he teaches Japanese at NYU as an adjunct and is the adviser of the Japanese Cultural Club. And on the weekends, he teaches English to our fellow countrymen online. How he keeps up with the demands of an NBA player husband, an almost three-year old daughter, and the "wives" club of the Knicks, while teaching and studying is beyond me. He is, in a word, unbelievable.

"Subject... verb... object..."

I am simply sitting on the couch in the office behind him, reading one of Akira's children's books. She is fed, bathed, and in bed and we enjoy these quiet moments, even when we aren't speaking. The book is a gift from our neighbor, Elizabeth, and serves both to entertain our precocious daughter and to improve my English. I can speak English with only a modicum of embarrassment, but my written and reading skills are lacking. Akira, even at her age, can manage the words in the picture book as well as I.

I finish the one about the curious little monkey, which I can completely understand, and turn to the rhyming book by a doctor that confounds me with every word.

"...rearrange the words in the idiom and..."

Takao has been away in California for the past week, working with Kise on a photo shot. We don't need the extra money, but Takao insists that it will pay for Akira's college someday, and that sometimes it's nice to be considered beautiful by someone other than his husband.

Ever since Takao returned, I can't be close enough to him. I hate when he has to go to class, or I to work, but he doesn't mind my obsessiveness, at least not at the moment. I am a quiet study partner, I have always been so, and I know he can block out distractions. Takao yawns and stretches.

"Why did I wait until my last semester to take Problems in Translation?" he whines. If he initiates conversation, I know that it is safe to respond.

"How about dinner?" I say, gladly shutting the gaily-colored book.

"What will Shin-chan makes us tonight?" he ponders. If he wants anything edible, he knows I will not be making dinner. "Or should we order in?"

"Order in," I confirm. It is my money we are spending. His teaching position only pays a pittance and the money left over after his scholarship disbursement is comical; I can do the conversion in my head. Takao searches through the stack of take-out and delivery menus I have collected for the days when it is my turn to provide sustenance.

"What do you feel like tonight?"

"Anything, your choice. As long as it doesn't involve getting off the couch – or better yet – if we can eat it while soaking in the tub – I will be happy," I amend.

"Do you mind if we eat something stereotypically American?" he asks for more clarification.

"No, not at all."

* * *

He picks an alliteratively named sub-sandwich place that specializes in quick delivery. I indulge myself with a vegetarian club with rich, decadent avocado spread and fresh cucumbers, among other vegetables. My sub is gone within moments, my calorie load is extravagant, but the team's dietitian assures me that with my level of exercise, I'm barely getting enough to eat.

Takao has tuna fish, American-style, with mayonnaise, celery, and onion. It is brain food for him and as he slips a little lower in the water, he looks extremely satisfied with the bite he has just put in his mouth.

I am across from him at the other side of the tub, my feet on either side of his head. He is exhausted, I can tell, but he's valiantly trying to eat and stay awake so that he can spend time with me.

When I'm done with my sandwich, I take one of his feet in my hand and rub at the instep. He puts the remains of his sandwich back in the bag and tosses it on the floor away from the tub. He purrs and sinks down so that only his nose and is above the water.

"Don't drown, Akira would be devastated," I say.

He smirks at me and blows bubbles in the water.

* * *

Like clockwork, Akira stumbles into our bed every morning at exactly 4 am. We don't know how she does it. When we put her in her big girl bed at night, we close the door. She is too short to reach the handle, yet somehow our little escape artist manages to wind up in between us. This morning when she kicks me on her way into bed, Takao rolls over and turns off the alarm which would have gone off in fifteen minutes anyway.

"Good morning, princess," he says and kisses her on the head. She snuggles under my chin and grumbles something that isn't English or Japanese.

Takao spends a few precious seconds watching us, then crawls out of bed. I go back to sleep, while he prepares for his morning class.

* * *

"No, daddy, don't drink it," Akira says, "you have to stir the tea first."

"Ah, yes, forgive me," I respond, smiling as I swirl the imaginary spoon inside the pink plastic tea set cup with Disney's Mulan plastered on it.

Her little brow creases and I stir until she is satisfied and only then do I sip again.

"That's better," she comments on my technique.

She has inherited Takao's observant gray eyes and my hair color and OCD. After we are done with tea, Akira places each tiny cup and saucer back into the original cardboard box they came in.

"Daddy, don't fit!" she pouts, frustrated that the molded plastic that cradles them no longer holds its shape properly. Again, for an unknown amount of days in a row, I take the plastic from her and pop it back enough so that she will be satisfied with the fit.

* * *

A/N: To help tide us over until KnB comes back from Hiatus, I decided to post this first chapter of my sequel. I won't be posting on a schedule like I did with Partners or Priorities, but I'm excited about the prospect of this story and I will be working on it diligently. Since that is the case, your reviews WILL directly influence the direction of this story. While I'm not making any promises, I'd love to hear what you want to see!

I hope you enjoyed the tease of the main story and the taste of what the Midorima family has been up to in the last six years.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: My thanks to Cowrie, Kira, EverKnightAngel and "Guest" for their reviews of chapter one. The more feedback I get, the more motivation and inspiration I have for this story!

* * *

_"Defensive Foul, charging on Japan, number 10, Taiga Kagami. One free throw is awarded to number 6, Shintarō Midorima. The foul didn't stop Midorima from scoring those three points, and now on top of that, he's at the free throw line, ready to try for more points. If he makes it, the point gap will close to one."_

_"It was a poor decision on Team Japan's part to allow this foul to happen this late in the game. Shintarō hasn't missed a single shot he's gotten off in Olympic play…"_

* * *

Akashi threw his single-breasted wool Armani jacket to the floorboards of the limo as he climbed in. Furihata was right behind him to pick up the fifteen hundred-dollar jacket, smoothing it out before it would have to go to the dry cleaners, again.

"Tell me some good news, Kōki," Akashi said as he folded into the back seat and raised the privacy glass between them and the driver. Furihata took the seat next to him, watching in concern as Akashi fidgeted before settling in a comfortable position.

"The papers came through this morning. It's official: you are now a citizen of the United States of America. Congratulations."

"Fantastic," Akashi sighed, allowing his head to fall on Furihata shoulder. "You'll take care of the rest? All my official document?" _It's all going according to plan. Someday… someday, there won't have to be a plan, but that day hasn't arrived yet._

"I had most of it done in preparation; I sent everything else away this morning. There are a few things you'll need to do in person, like your social security card and driver's license, but otherwise…"

"I have the best damn assistant in the world. What did I do to deserve you?"

"Absolutely nothing!" Furihata chuckled. "You beat Murasakibara for the laziest human being on the planet when it comes to anything other than basketball."

"And my studies, our finances, juggling the demands of the NBA and the Akashi Foundation, or an don't forget publicity. I'm diligent in all the things that matter," Akashi teased. It was an old joke between them and Akashi appreciated the gentle ribbing for what it was. "And sex: you must admit, I'm very energetic when it comes to that."

Furihata's eyes darted nervously to the spot where the driver's head would be behind the glass.

"We have absolute privacy back here; I've told you that before and...," he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the remarkable little black box that Reo had replaced for them each time a new version came out, "...it's safe to talk freely."

"I know, I know; it's just… we've established our habits to protect us."

"And if we were at home now, I'd kiss you. But seriously, you're the one who has made me lazy; you spoil me, Kōki, every time."

"I'm surprised we haven't heard from your father yet."

"I decided not to play defense with him on this one; I attacked with logic."

"Oh?" Furihata asked, loosening Akashi's tie and then slipping an arm around him, guiding him so that Akashi's rested against him more fully.

"My argument was simple; Japan hasn't done better than ninth place in the modern Olympics. The United States on the other hand has won fifteen gold medals in the same time period. I want that medal; he wants it associated with the Akashi name. It is an honor our family has never had before."

"You are a devious bastard, Jiro."

"If only I _was_ a bastard, life would be much easier. But you continue to love me, nonetheless, neh?"

"Of course I do," he chuckled against the red hair and felt Akashi melt into the gesture.

"What time is our flight?" Akashi mumbled.

"We leave out of LAX at 9:40 on American Airlines. We'll arrive just after 6 am tomorrow morning."

"Excellent, do we have time for dinner at the airport? If we could stop at that Sushi place –"

Akashi's phone rang, filling the car with the stupidly cheery ringtone he'd assigned to the socialite, Maria Johnson.

"If you don't answer it, she'll call me. You know I'm right," Furihata said.

"I know, but you can tell her I'm in a meeting," Akashi dismissed.

"She knows we're on the way to the airport. She knows you're leaving for a few weeks. You should at least say goodbye to your 'girlfriend,' Jiro."

"How many dates have we had?" Akashi sat up. He hated that word, 'girlfriend.' He'd dated half of Southern California's eligible women in an attempt to protect their future.

"Four dates," Furihata answered, grinding his teeth as he did. He didn't need to consult a calendar, he knew, just like he knew that today was Tuesday, because he'd had to stay at home alone during each of those painfully long evenings.

After three rounds of the song, the inside of the car fell silent. After another fifteen seconds, a gentle ding indicated a voice mail message.

Furihata's phone rang next, playing the opening chords of a song that was reassigned every few months to the next woman Akashi dated.

"Break up with her for me, then send her flowers. I'm done with romance for a while; I can be 'single' until after the Olympics, it's only makes sense that I'd want to focus on the games now."

Furihata answered the phone with a happiness in his voice that wasn't forced. His favorite part of being Akashi's assistant was telling the women to get lost.

**_"Hi, Maria, yes? Oh?"_** Furihata looked confused, then he smirked at Akashi. **_"I see, well, I'll tell him."_** He paused again, listening. **_"Yes, I, of all people, know how difficult Akashi-sama can be and you're totally right; you've got to look out for you first... What? No, please keep whatever gifts Akashi-sama gave you; he'd want it that way, I'm sure. Thank you, Maria. Let me know if there's anything I can do to help. Goodbye."_**

"Was I just preemptively dumped?" Akashi asked, laughing.

"Are you devastated?"

"Yes, you must console me, Kōki," Akashi grinned, his red eye sparkled, while his golden eye hazed over with lust.

"I don't care how much you protest that the driver can't see through that glass, Jiro. I'm not having sex with you while the driver is in the car," Furihata insisted, avoiding Akashi's twin gaze.

"I'll settle for sucking you off, then," Akashi said and swung around so he was on his knees between Furihata's thighs.

"I…"

"Try not to make too much noise, Kōki; I can't guarantee he can't hear us," Akashi smirked, before loosening Furihata's belt.


	3. Chapter 3

_"Team USA's best shooter confers with his captain. With three minutes to go in the fourth quarter, there is only one possible decision."_

_"That's right, Marv, interestingly enough, Team Japan has never progressed this far in internal play. If they manage to squeak out this win, it will be a major upset."  
_

_"The Team USA bench is active. They can't be considering sending in..."_

* * *

POV Midorima

"I didn't expect to see you here, Seijūrō," I say, looking at the back of his red hair.

"Why not? Do you actually think there is a better Point Guard in the NBA?" he asks, then turns to look at me, a smug little smile on his face. His eyes, both of them, are smiling when they lock on mine. He's dressed out in red and white; I wear blue and orange.

"In the NBA? No," I answer truthfully, matching his smile. It is unspoken, but understood, that there will always be one Point Guard I value above him. "But your name was on the disabled list the last time I checked."

"It was minor and I have recovered. I can't believe you, of all people, would doubt me."

"Even infallible friends get hurt." I shrug; the very American habit is now second-nature to me.

"It will be good to play with you again," Seijūrō says. "It took these Americans long enough to realize your value. You should have been a starter your first season, and the league's Number One Shooter not long after."

"We are both Americans now, least you forget," I tease, "but that title isn't important to me anymore; I have more important ones now."

"Let me see the latest picture," he says.

"I don't carry my phone on the court, but I will afterward. Why didn't you tell me you were coming? Where are you staying?"

"It was last minute. Because of my status on the injured list, I wasn't given an invitation to join until I was cleared on Tuesday. We didn't want to impose upon you at the last second. Kazunari has enough to worry about with school and family life, he doesn't need the extra layer of a month-long house guests.

"He'd be glad of the company –"

"Fish and company smell after three days."

"Once we're done here, you'll call Furihata and make the move to our place. I won't hear any protests. Our home is yours, Seijūrō, it always will be."

* * *

It is immediately obvious to me that Seijūrō is still hurting no matter what he insists. He isn't limping or favoring his ankle, but he is more cautious under the pretense of 'getting to know' the other team members.

It is a ridiculous room full of egos. We are the cream of the crop, the all-stars of the all-stars, players known not so much for their team work, but for their singular qualities. It sounds ridiculously familiar; Tetsuya would be pleased that I recognize the syndrome for what it is. I'm not sure if I want to be counted among them, but the honor of playing for the Dream Team is so tempting that I had jumped at the chance to play for my new country's team. I've only been an American citizen for about six months, so this honor is new and exciting.

"Huddle up!" The coaches – likewise culled from a menagerie of teams – are disorganized. They work well with those they already know and are distant from those that they do not. I'm grateful that this team will be working on my home territory. "Warm up slowly with laps around the court."

Seijūrō, like Takao, has to modify his stride frequency to keep in step with me, and it takes only a moment for us to find our rhythm again. For a moment it feels like we are back in middle school, back before our hubris led us astray. But then I look forward and in front of us are different men, the other members of the starting line-up. Each wears their own team's colors. Our new uniforms won't be in until later in the month and wearing our colors is just another ego-centric move on our part.

"I've played against all of these men before," I say as we jog around the home team side of the court.

"It's a crime that you didn't make the All-Star Game last year," he sighs. "But I've played with at least half of them. Anything you want to know about them?"

"How do they compare to Teiko?"

"The Power Forward," he says, careful not to say any names. We are speaking Japanese, but there is no need to antagonize the native. "He's like Aomine was at his lowest point. He's arrogant and hostile. He thinks taking direction from anyone other than the coach is beneath him."

The Power Forward in question, Jermaine "Pretty Boy" Floyd, is dark-skinned man – I still don't feel comfortable with the nuanced differences between the words "African-American" and "Black," so I categorize him as darker than Quentin, and leave it at that – and he's at least 213 cm tall. Judging by the way he moves he's carrying more than 120 kg on his frame and not a bit of it is excessive. He's taller than Murasakibara, but he doesn't seem to care that he towers over everyone other than the Center. He wears green and white.

We switch to running the lanes. As the whistle blows we sprint down court, touch the line, and return. It is a very familiar exercise, but I can see that Seijūrō isn't giving his all. It is… disturbing. As we wait for our next turn, we continue to exchange information.

"I haven't played with the Center, nor against him. I was already benched with the ankle injury the last time his team played mine," Akashi tells me.

"I played him last month. He's good at all things defense, but his shooting percentage is extraordinarily low. He's always in motion, which is the opposite of Atushi. I can't say if that's good or bad, but without the ability to consistently score, I don't have high hopes. We'll have to be prepared for him to be fouled often at the end of the games."

"Good to know," Akashi responds as he dashes down the lane.

The Center, Carmine Bianchi, aka "the Sausage," is even taller at 216 cm. He wears yellow and purple. The ground shakes as he moves by me in the opposite direction and we switch, so that I launch down the lane. I overtake Akashi in three long strides.

We switch to a new exercise, one I'd never even contemplated before where we walk backward on our heels, our toes pointed as far up as possible. It is awkward and uncomfortable at first, but once my toes hit the ground again, I feel how much the stretch has helped. Once all the players have caught up. We turn around and proceed back to the other side of the court in the same manner.

"And your opinion on the Small Forward?" I ask, as we stretch.

"I enjoyed playing with him." Akashi frowns as he says it.

"You face does agree with your mouth." It is a tease Akira loves to use against me, and it fits the situation so well.

"I apologize." Akashi shakes his head and smiles. "I was thinking about _our _Power Forward. From what I know of this one, he's fluid and graceful, but without Kise's Perfect Copy... well, he's the best available to us."

The Small Forward, Arty "The Shark" Montgomery, is the shortest player, aside from Seijūrō. He's only 198cm and he's as thin as a whip. He plays on the coach's team. He wears white and black.

I've played all these men before – sometimes victorious, sometimes not – but now we, and a dozen more back-ups and specialists, are here together for one common goal: to bring home a gold medal for team USA.

* * *

After two quarters of play, the coach calls us in.

"I'm not really sure we need this entire month. You're all professionals, after all," he says and I have to run that sentence through my translating mind more than once before I fully comprehend what he has said. I miss the next few words; Takao would be ashamed of me. He says that I must learn to think in English rather than translate the words, but my mind just doesn't work that way.

"...practice Monday through Friday, two hours before lunch, two hours for lunch, two hours after lunch. That should give you enough time to gel as a proper team. Just stick to what you do best, do your job, and we'll bring home another gold medal."

Akashi's eyes narrow. There is calculation going on behind those multi-colored orbs that says he's unhappy and I find myself agreeing with him.

No one hangs around after practice and the shower room is empty. It is unsurprising that Seijūrō doesn't take a shower in this open space, so I forgo mine as well. Our home will be just as good.

* * *

"You take the subway?" he asks when I lead us underground. "You're not... harassed?"

"I sign a few autographs, but New Yorkers are not impressed by celebrities," I say, shrugging.

I help him purchase a railpass, remembering when Quentin did the same for me, six years ago. The nostalgia is pleasant now that I am not the one in need of assistance.

We slip into the last car of the train and as Akashi fights to keep the pain off of his face.

* * *

A/N: Am I the only one who feels so lost without the KnB manga? I'm glad it ended before it got repetitive, but the 30 second wrap up for Akashi... that was just not enough. So, I'm glad that I'm writing more of the story myself. If you agree, how about hitting me up with review? I could use the encouragement in this post-KnB world we find ourselves in.


	4. Chapter 4

POV Takao

With Akira in tow, and an emailed grocery list, I gathered up a few items at the market before returning home. I'd only had a few seconds, to turn Akira loose and greet Neko-chan, when two moody NBA players – and future Olympians – and Furihata came in, pulling luggage with them.

"Daddy!" Akira shouted in her best excited voice, i.e., without volume control, and dashed into his arms. He scooped her up, spun her around, and settled her onto his right hip, then pushed his glasses up and presented her to the Emperor.

"Akira, this is my friend Akashi Seijūrō and his companion, Furihata Kōki. Seijūrō, Kōki, this is our daughter, Akira.

"I'm Mirdorima Akira and I'm this many years old," she said, showing three little fingers proudly.

"You can call me Jiro. May I call you Akira-hime?"

"Hime, hime, hime," she sang, just like the song from the anime. She bucked in Shin-chan's arms, kicking him, but all he did was smile at our princess.

* * *

That evening after Akira went down for the night, we reconvened in the living room. Shin-chan was sprawled over the sofa, one long leg spread out, the other bent and hanging off the side. Furihata was on the floor, in front of the television, flipping through our vast array of channels, and Akashi sat rigidly, with his hands on his knees, on the straight backed chair no one ever sat in because it was too damned uncomfortable. I brought out a tray of tea, and put it on the coffee table. Shin-chan and Furihata went for the beverages immediately, but Akashi did not move, seemingly lost in thought.

"So, now that we are in private, Seijūrō, I'd like an honest answer about your injury. I've known you too long, and played with you too often to be fooled by your bullshit lies."

"It's nothing, Shintarō, don't –"

"He's got a pinched nerve in his back at L5," Furihata said.

"Kōki!" There was anger in that awful red eye.

"He's right, he knows you too well, and you're not going to be able to hide it from him. You shouldn't hide it from him. You're in pain, and if you'd gone to the doctor right after it happened instead of hiding your wound like some…. some... stray animal, you wouldn't be in pain right now," Furihata said, his voice becoming more angry and strident by the word.

Shin-chan and I exchanged glances.

Akashi took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He arms trembled as they took all the weight off his back and rested it on his knees.

"You're right," he finally said.

I heard Shin-chan exhale.

"But I can't change the past; I have to live with what I've done."

"How bad is it? You are being treated now, right?" I asked.

"The team physician did an MRI and a series of X-rays to clear me."

"And he lied to them, he told them it wasn't bothering him anymore," Furihata accused.

"Kazu, call your chiropractor, tell him we'll pay for a house call."

"I don't want that. All I want is to take a long hot bath and go to bed. It's my body and all three of you –" he turned his attention to Furihata and held his eyes for a second, "– need to respect my decisions regarding this matter."

"The bath is upstairs, Seijūrō," Shin-chan answered, no emotion leaking from his voice. "You are welcome to use it."

Akashi stood, schooling his facial features to hide the agony that accompanied each step, and went upstairs without another word.

"That's not good," I said, feeling stupid for saying it, but needing to add something.

"No, and I think its getting worse," Furihata said. He turned over on his back and stared at the ceiling.

"I have a pinched nerve in my lumbar as well," I continued. "It came from carrying Akira on the same hip all the time. I get adjusted by my chiropractor every three months and I feel fine, but I know that if it hurts enough to show, he's in agony."

Shin-chan stood and placed his hand on my shoulder. "That's enough, Kazu, Furihata already knows that."

* * *

After almost an hour, Furihata's cell phone rang. Half asleep, he scrambled for the phone and he fumbled with it until the call went to voice mail. A second later, the phone rang again.

"Jiro?" Furihata mumbled.

Shin-chan and I exchanged looks. If the Emperor was calling from upstairs, something was wrong. I nodded and Shin-chan returned the gesture.

"...I can't make my legs move..." I heard Akashi's pained voice coming from the speaker.

"I'm on my way. I'll bring your, um, pajamas."

Furihata disappeared into the back bedroom for a moment and came out with a folded bundle of laundry. He hurried up the stairs.

"There's no way Furihata's going to be able to help him out of that tub without injuring himself," I said.

"Call your Chiropractor," Shin-chan said.

* * *

"...thank you Dr. Faldeen, I appreciate that. Yes, tomorrow morning at 8am will be perfect."

Furihata came down the stairs, soaking wet and blushing red.

"I'm sorry to ask...," he stuttered.

"Of course, we'll help," Shin-chan interrupted, and we went straight up stairs.

Akashi was slumped over the side of the tub and when we entered, he glared at Furihata.

"Furihata didn't need to tell us what's wrong, baka," Shin-chan said as he got an arm under Akashi and levered him up. I wrapped a towel around him as his upper body cleared the water. "We are used to helping our daughter out of the bath. Just be still and let us do the work."

While Shin-chan held him, Furihata and I maneuvered his legs out of the water and after drying him, Shin-chan supported Akashi as he limped downstairs and into the guest bedroom/office.

"My doctor will be here at 8 am to adjust your back. He takes care of Shin-chan's injuries all the time, he's discreet." I sat down on the edge of the bed and adjusted the heating pad so that he wouldn't burn himself.

"Thank you, Kazunari," Akashi whispered, "You're a good caregiver, even to an ingrate like me."

"It comes from having two children," I chided. "Of course, the adult one is much harder to baby. I've sent Shin-chan and Furihata to look for my prescription Naproxen. Don't be too hard on Furihta, Akashi. He loves you and wants you to feel better."

"I know, I really do. We've had five furtive years together, but sometimes – especially when I'm injured – I forget that he's always on my side. I'm sure Shintarō has mentioned some of my checkered past..."

"Shin-chan doesn't tell other people's secrets, but his willingness to put up with you – even after all your dick behavior – is enough to tell me what I need to know."

Furihata hesitated in the doorway.

"If you need anything," I said, getting up and going to the door. "Just ask. Be warned that Akira is an escape artist. She tends to roam, so lock the door behind me."

I squeezed Furihata's shoulder as I left.

* * *

"What are you thinking?" I asked Shin-chan once we'd finally crawled into bed and settled so that my head rested on his shoulder.

"That for such a smart man, Seijūrō is an imbecile sometimes." He sighed and then turned toward me and tucked me in under his chin. It was a classic reflex on his part; every time he was upset, he preferred to hide.

"He'll be alright. I got through the same injury, he can too."

"I know, but you're mentally stronger than him."

* * *

A/N: I'm on vacation for the next nine days and will be out of the country! I hope you review while I'm gone, and I will respond to you once I have returned.


	5. Chapter 5

_"Team USA calls for another time out. There is more movement on the bench."_

_"Akashi seems stiff, don't you think, Marv?"_

_"It could be his injury resurfacing..."_

* * *

Five minutes after the chiropractor thumped on Akashi's lower back with an object that resembled a hammer, he felt cautiously, guardedly better.

An hour after the man left he continued to feel good and moved about his preparations for practice as if he wasn't injured.

During practice he was able to move with ease and recaptured some of the grace he was so well known for.

That night they had sex for the first time in seven weeks where Furihata didn't have to straddle Akashi so as not to put undue strain on the already screaming nerves in his back.

Akashi still slept with a pillow between his knees, as recommended by the chiropractor, and he made an effort to keep both feet on the floor when seated – instead of crossing his legs as had been instilled by his father – and, began a regiment of lower body strengthening exercises.

That wasn't to say he was pain free and each Monday, he endured yet another adjustment by the chiropractor because his injury wasn't something that would ever be reversed, but could be controlled and mitigated. In the meantime Furihata did research, looking for discrete chiropractors in Los Angeles.

* * *

"Why hasn't Coach picked a Captain yet?" Pretty Boy growled the question, threw his towel in the general direction of the hamper, and slammed his locker closed. He stood there, naked and defiant, waiting for someone to answer his question.

_I've been wondering the same thing, _Akashi thought. _I am the most qualified for the position after all. _

"I wouldn't want to make the decision either," Sausage said, equally as naked, but less aware of the fact as he whipped around and almost flopped into one of the bench players.

"Gross," Brian Kramer, backup Point Guard, and the recipient of the Sausage's sausage sneer. "Get your junk out of my face. Everyone on this team is a Captain of their respective teams."

"I'm not," Midorima said quietly, continuing to dress.

"Ok, almost everyone," Kramer sighed. "So, Midorima's out of the running, but that leaves at least four other good choice for our Captain."

"Coach won't pick someone until we get to the games," Pretty Boy said a huff, and dropped to the bench, finally pulling on some modicum of clothing.

"What makes you so sure?" Akashi asked.

"That's right, both of you Japs are new to the Olympic Team, aren't you?" Pretty Boy smirked. "Coach didn't tell us 'til we were practicing in Rio, he said it was good for team morale to work our hardest and compete against each other until the last second."

_Japs? As if I hadn't heard that one before. _

"It's not going to be you," Kramer said, staring at the scars on Akashi's back.

"And why not?" The fiery redhead turned, feeling the team's eyes on his shame. He'd stopped hiding the marks with the Clipper once someone had insinuated the reason he never took his clothing off in the locker room was because of his… lack of endowment, but he wasn't going to play that game with these superstars.

"Because you've never been on the Olympic Team before," Kramer answered.

"You'd never be able to handle the pressure," Pretty Boy agreed.

Instead of rising to the bait, Akashi put on his t-shirt and then started in on his shoes.

Midorima was half-way through tapping the fingers of his left hand when the tape ran out. He looked through his locker and his bag and didn't find a spare.

"Does anyone have –?"

"Kazunari asked me to keep a spare roll in my bag," Akashi handed over the tape.

"Who's Kazunari? Your boyfriend?" The Shark, who had been quiet this whole time asked.

"Don't pretend to be ignorant, it's unflattering," Midorima said in a low, dismissive tone.

The Sausage made his way over, still naked, as Midorima finished wrapping his pinky finger. Seated as he was, when Midorima looked up, he was greeted with an enormous soft phallus.

"That's –" Akashi began, but Midorima waved him off with a gesture. The Shooting Guard turned his head and stood, pushing The Sausage backward.

"Would you like to see a picture of my husband?" Midorima turned on his phone and thumbed through his photographs, stopping at the one of Kazu and Akira that he'd taken last week.

"He's a beautiful man," Akashi said. "Who's ad campaign did he model for at Fashion Week?"

"Yamamoto Yohji and Versace," the proud husband answered.

A crowd had formed behind the naked man, all of them peering for a good look at the photograph.

"Alright, yeah he's pretty…"

"Are you kidding, I'd pound that ass…"

"How did you end up with such a looker?'

They were all comments and questions he'd heard before. The locker room talk, the taunts of opposing players… with Kazunari's help, he'd managed to learn to ignore most of it, occasionally throwing back as good as he got.

"I've been open about my sexuality since high school. Let me assure you," he said, his voice dropping lower and forcing everyone to move in to hear him, "that I am a very happily married man with a lovely daughter. The only cock I'm sucking is my husbands. I have no interest in any of yours. Are we done with this conversation?"

"I remember him! He and my girlfriend did a photo shoot together a month ago in California. He was really sweet and respectful," The Shark said. "You lucked out man, congrats."

* * *

In the subway, Midorima flopped into the first available seat while Akashi took ahold of one of the straps and stood before him.

"You handled that bullying well. If that asshole had put his penis in my face, I would have…"

"I'm glad you didn't notice me restraining myself from reaching out and squeezing his scrotum until he cried. The voices in my head suggest things like that all the time, but Kazu tells me that would make me very unpopular."

"My gold side, as Koki calls it, would have hurt him as well," Akashi confessed. "He would not approve either."

"It amuses me that everyone assumes that Kazu is the uke."

Akashi took a moment to truly hear that statement.

_"…__Assumes that Kazu is the uke." Why wouldn't they? Wait, he's amused?_

"I… apologize, Shintarō, I likewise assumed…"

"Really? But you've known me for years."

"And I would never have equated you with the feminine role," Akashi insisted.

"It's not about being the girl," Midorima sighed. "It's no wonder you can't admit out loud that you're gay."

Akashi eyes darted around.

"Stop, we're speaking Japanese and the only other people in this car are old white ladies. If they speak Japanese it would be amazing, forget that, if they can hear us over the rumble of the subway, it would be a miracle."

"Still… I don't say such things in _public_ because my father would destroy Koki's family as a punishment to me."

"Then bring them to the United States; put them under your protection. For a genius, you are very slow."

"Bring them here?"

"Get them jobs, bring them to the States. Set them up in comfort and stop lying to yourself and the world. If you are so shocked that Kazu is the _seme_ in our relationship, you're working under assumptions for another age," Midorima insisted. "You're worse than the homophobes in the locker room who thought I'd want to suck their dicks just because I happen to be gay

As the train slowed for their stop, Midorima lurched out of his seat. Akashi followed him mechanically, as the wheels of inspiration began to twirl.


End file.
